


Mánagarmr

by seamayweed (night_shade)



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Heahmund's poor life choices, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Games, Porn With Plot, Religion, Rough Sex, Seduction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-06-29 05:43:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15723162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/night_shade/pseuds/seamayweed
Summary: Heahmund begins a dangerous game of seduction when he decides to win Ivar’s trust with more carnal and sinful means. But how does this change their fate? Where does Heahmund’s free will lead him? Will he stay true to Ivar, or will he prove himself to be as fickle as the waxing and waning moon, following only his own path?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so I just started watching Vikings and this is what my brain came up with. Hope you enjoy!

It had been a mistake for Ivar to show such vulnerability to Heahmund. To tell him that he had spared him because he was jealous of him, because he admired him as a warrior, for his strength and his wholeness.

It had been clear then, what he had to do. No choice at all. Even as he asked God for guidance, head raised to the dark ceiling of his prison, fervent pleas trembling on his lips, he had known what to do. Asked for forgiveness instead, for mercy upon his unclean soul, and for the sins he would soon heap upon himself.

Light streamed in through the gaps in the wooden grids of the windows, and it felt like benediction, like God was with him, rays cradling his face tenderly like pale ethereal fingers or angels’ wings, and he knew it was the right choice.

In Ivar he had seen the face of the devil, but Heahmund was God’s righteous sword, and he would strike down any pagan that God sent his way, would be more than willing to dirty his hands with their foul blood. He was already a sinner, weak to the temptations of the flesh and susceptible to pride, the most egregious of the seven deadly sins, so how could he refuse when God pointed him in the direction of his newest foe, demanding from Heahmund that he lower himself further so he could be level with the snake of Eden and sink his teeth into its heart?

God save the heathen, for Heahmund knew Ivar wanted him.

And he would make sure it was going to be his downfall.

*

And so, later, when they came for him, he resisted little, letting them drag him roughly to his feet and herd him through the godless heathen village to jeering faces and insults, many hands pushing and pulling at him like they had in York, yanking him down screaming and fighting from Ivar’s horse, but now urging him to go faster, seeking to unbalance him.

But he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him fall. Not this time.

Around him the stink of rancid fat and blood and rotten fish was overwhelming. His lip curled in disgust. He wouldn’t have expected any better from a place the heathens called home.

‘Christian’ they spat as though it was a dirty word. It wasn’t anything like the way Ivar said it though—so peculiar, neither an insult or a mockery, something hungry in his eyes as he smiled at Heahmund like he meant to devour him.

Despite his stalwart attempts at staying upright, a final push sent him sprawling face-first into the filthy ground before Ivar, a mockery of his prostration before God. He tasted mud and the fishy iron tang of whale blood. The heathens’ laughter reached an uproarious crescendo. One hand curled in the wet ground before he gracelessly lifted himself to his feet, coming eye to eye with the devil himself.

Ivar leaned back on his stool at the front of a shack, only looking amused. Once more he gave him that ultimatum, the tip of a knife digging into the leather over his chest as it dragged down, his unnaturally blue eyes burning holes into Heahmund’s face with their intensity.

And Heahmund knew what he had to do.

He deliberately let his gaze sink, then raised his eyes, so he could look at Ivar through his lashes. The effect was immediate: Ivar’s breathing increased and his pupils widened slightly.

“Why don’t you give me the knife?” Heahmund’s tone held the hint of a challenge, one that he knew Ivar would not be able to resist. His smile was nothing short of a dare.

A brief tightening around Ivar’s mouth, the flash of something in his eyes as he searched Heahmund’s face before a smile of his own broke out on his face. He flipped the knife, handle-first. Heahmund could run him through with it, but he wouldn’t get far, not with the mob at his back, surrounding them from all sides, and Ivar knew it too, judging by the smirk on his face. It grew wider when Heahmund took the blade with his bound hands and turned it against his own chest, eyes never once straying from Ivar’s.

The heathen strained forward to see better, as eager as a child, when Heahmund turned to face the crowd and the man yelling abuses at him, calling him to do it, calling him a coward, spittle flying out of his mouth.

Heahmund looked at him calmly for a moment. Then he rammed the knife deeply into the man’s neck and watched him bleed out on the ground.

It was deathly silent by the time he turned back around to Ivar. Laughing and clapping, smiling widely from ear to ear, he looked like a madman.

“I think he will fight with us!”

As the crowd cheered, Heahmund threw the knife to the side, repressing a cold smile of his own.

It was easy, almost too easy. He had seen the way Ivar had reacted when Heahmund cut his people down, going so far as to offer his own horse when Heahmund had lost his. So deep did his perversion run.

Ivar thought this was his victory. It was not.

It was Heahmund’s.

*

The lack of a collar or chains was refreshing. It seemed that now that the heathens were convinced he would wield his sword in their cause, they no longer felt a need to restrain him. Even Ivar seemed pleased enough with Heahmund’s decision and the spectacle he made of it that he let Heahmund roam around freely, if under the watchful eyes of his men. Heahmund took advantage of this, walking through the village, scouting it out, to then barge into Ivar’s quarters after supper, pushing past the guards with little trouble.

“Heahmund!” Ivar said. He was sitting on the edge of his bed and had just finished removing the heavy metal braces from his legs. “Whatever brings you to my quarters?”

When Heahmund didn’t say anything, Ivar continued, “Oh right! I never told you where you could stay for the night. My bad. But I was thinking you should sleep in my quarters anway. What do you say? You could lie on the ground, at the foot of my bed, like a dog, or…” his head rolled to the side, languidly, as his hooded eyes roved up and down Heahmund’s body, “...you could warm my bed instead.”

At the last, his eyes snapped back up to Heahmund’s face, leering at him in an obscene smile clearly meant to provoke. For a moment, Heahmund was reminded of the first time he saw him, in the rain, in York, sitting in front of his upturned chariot without a care in the world, face painted red with blood, laughing and clapping his hands at the carnage that happened all around him. At that moment Heahmund had no doubt that he was looking at the incarnation of the devil himself, the red devil, and pointed his sword at him. Then Ivar spotted him, and he had stuck out his tongue in a similarly obscene fashion, with the blood pooling in the hollow of it, as though daring Heahmund to taste it from the source of evil—the devil’s tongue—itself.

Ivar watched him expectantly. It was obvious that he wanted to see how Heahmund would react, maybe with offense, anger or even disgust. But this time, the joke was on him.

Heahmund pushed Ivar’s chest hard, sending him sprawling backwards on the furs with a muffled shout. By the time he got his bearings, Heahmund was already seated in his lap and had started undoing the straps of his armor.

Ivar’s eyes were flinty, his hand had found the hilt of a knife where it lay gleaming in the fur with his fingers not yet fully curled around the handle. He bared his teeth.

“What—do you think you are doing?”

Heahmund calmly continued divesting himself of his armor and clothes, dropping piece after piece to the floor. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Ivar propped himself up on his elbows, the wary look so out of place on his face that usually radiated nothing but the utmost confidence, alight with a madman’s fire—now replaced with shadows and smoke. “I don’t know.”

The end of his sentence ended with a lilt, sounding almost like a question. His fingers danced up and down the handle of the knife, the muscles in his forearm tensing and untensing, as though he was debating whether to stab Heahmund and have it be done and over with, or wait it out and see what would happen next.

Feeling merciful, Heahmund decided to make the choice a little easier for Ivar. He put his hands on the firm shoulders, caressing them as he leaned forward until his lips were level with Ivar’s ear.

“I know you want me,” he breathed, “Ivar.” His lashes brushed the other’s skin as he looked up. Ivar trembled.

A series of emotions flitted over his face, from arousal to fear to absolute bewilderment. He seemed almost angry even; there was no doubt he knew he was being manipulated and played with. Ivar wasn’t a fool after all, that much Heahmund knew, the memory of York and his utter defeat at the hands of the heathens still fresh on his mind.

Ivar’s internal struggle continued for a few seconds, but Heahmund could pinpoint the exact moment he snapped—growling and grabbing the back of Heahmund’s hair, wrenching his head backwards and forcing him to bare his neck in an unnatural stretch. Heahmund’s pulse jumped and Ivar affixed his mouth there, falling over it hungrily.

Heahmund had noticed Ivar watching his neck from the beginning. Back in York, in the midst of battle while Ivar directed everything from a higher vantage point, and when he had been chained to that pole; or even in this godless heathen land, when Ivar had forced him to his knees and yanked his head back when he started praying in front of a king Ivar wanted to impress.

He had attributed Ivar’s obsession to the fact that his armor usually covered everything, leaving only his pale neck exposed, vulnerable to any arrow or blade.

If Ivar left a mark there, everyone would see it.

Breathing a little heavier, Heahmund tilted his head to the side for easier access and tugged Ivar’s hand down to his waist. He got the hint and helped get rid of the rest of his clothing as Heahmund pulled Ivar’s shirt over his head, and then there was nothing separating their skin any longer.

When Heahmund finally sank down on Ivar, his hands were gripping Heahmund’s hips hard enough to bruise. He was as tense as a drawn bowstring, his mouth had fallen open and he was panting like he could not get enough air into his lungs, pupils expanded wide enough to swallow the unholy blue of his eyes. Then he grunted and gritted his teeth because Heahmund could feel him twitching inside him already, threatening to spill early. But even as his nails dug into Heahmund’s flesh, trying to force his hips into stillness and fighting to get a semblance of control, he held Heahmund’s gaze, as though he considered it a sin to look away even for one moment.

Returning the scrutiny, Heahmund leaned forward to slowly lick the bead of sweat that trailed down Ivar’s chest, feeling him shiver as he did so.

He wanted to laugh.

Ivar was so young and inexperienced. By the way he reacted, so sensitive, overeager and almost clumsy, Heahmund was sure no one had shown him such pleasure before. And he knew the truth:

Ivar was no devil. He was just a lonely, sad little boy with delusions of grandeur.

Heahmund settled back on his heels, nails lightly scratching down Ivar’s chest and over a hardened nipple. Ivar cursed. “Need another moment?” Heahmund purred.

In lieu of an answer, Ivar only smiled tightly, lifting Heahmund’s hips and dropping them at the same time his own slammed up. As Heahmund doubled over with a bitten-off groan, Ivar turned his head so he could brush his lips over his ear. “I think the question is, do _you_?”

The first round was hard and fast. So was the second. For the third Ivar flipped their positions, supporting himself on only one hand as the other pressed warmly into the small of Heahmund’s back, lifting him up flush against Ivar’s body. Heahmund had his legs wrapped around Ivar’s waist as the other only used his hips and his upper body strength to drive into him over and over again.

They fucked well into the night, and when morning came they resumed like they had never stopped.

That was until Hvitserk walked in on them. Luckily for him, he came at the end of another round. Ivar and Heahmund laid on their backs, waiting for the sweat on their skin to cool down. For a moment, Hvitserk only gaped. Then Ivar rolled onto his side on his elbows and smirked.

“You got something worthwhile to say? I’m rather busy… as you can see.” He inclined his head towards Heahmund, hand spreading out in a wide flourish.

Even with his forearm covering his eyes, Heahmund could feel Hvitserk’s gaze on his skin. With a sigh he lifted his arm and stared back until Hvitserk had to look away.

Ivar laughed, looking delighted at this exchange. “There, there. The Christian won’t bite, will you?”

Heahmund had no idea what he said, speaking in his strange native tongue, but had no doubt it was nothing good. He sneered.

Ivar laughed some more, patting Heahmund’s flank fondly, then he turned back to Hvitserk. He raised a brow. “Well?”

Hvitserk huffed. “It reeks in here. You really need to wash up. I’ll send a slave girl to prepare a bath. Harald wants to talk to you.”

Now both brows shot up. “Again? I thought he would have had enough after the last time.”

But Hvitserk didn’t provide his brother with more information; he only paused to look at them one last time, seeming almost perplexed, before leaving.

They were lounging in the bed when the slave girl came, visibly startled when she saw them but quickly getting down to work. She set the wooden bathtub down in the corner of the room and left a few times to get enough hot water to fill the vessel. All the while she kept shooting glances at them, to which Ivar giggled. From time to time he would whisper things in English to Heahmund, using a filthy tone while in fact discussing banalities just to mess with her. Heahmund almost pitied the slave girl, but she was a heathen and did not deserve his pity.

As soon as she was done, the girl left in a hurry, barely remembering to bow to Ivar as she scuttled out the door.

Heahmund was the first to get out of bed. There was a resounding smack as Ivar slapped his ass. Heahmund bit back a sigh, shooting Ivar an irritated look while the latter laughed and appreciatively watched his seed trickle down Heahmund’s thighs.

But then the laughter trailed off and Ivar leaned forward, expression turning strangely pensive as he laid his cheek on his folded arms.

“You are full of surprises, Bishop Heahmund.” There was the flash of something in his eyes before it was suppressed and he was back to smiling cheekily again.

“I thought priests didn’t have sex.”

“They don’t. They take a vow of celibacy, but I am rather… lax about it.”

Ivar snorted. “You don’t say.” He tilted his head, the corners of his mouth lifting. “But I understand why you wouldn’t keep your vow. I wouldn’t either.”

Like a snake he then slithered down the bed, managing to make it look both awkward and graceful. Once more Heahmund marveled at the strength of his arms, pulling along the deadweight of his legs as they dragged behind him, seeming almost like they were not a part of his body, disproportionately fragile and underdeveloped compared to the rest of him.

Heahmund had felt the strength of his arms first-hand, never once seeming to tire as they lifted him over and over again to then pull him back down on his cock, or when they held up his own weight, hand buried in the fur next to Heahmund’s head as he powerfully thrust into his body.

And he felt the phantom of that strength, still, on his hips where dark purple bruises had developed. Earlier, Heahmund had woken up to Ivar admiring them, fitting his fingers over them to see if they were a perfect match (which of course they were), and he’d squeezed possessively when he saw that Heahmund was awake too. In his eyes there had been satisfaction, like a cat’s that was bathing in the sun.

Staring at the steaming wooden tub, Ivar’s brow furrowed as he craned his neck and tried to gauge the size. “Do you think we’ll both fit in there?”

“Let’s find out.”

The corner of Ivar’s mouth ticked up and the look in his eyes grew hungry. “I like the way you think, Heahmund.”

It was a tight fit. Water sloshed over the side to the floor for the slaves to mop up later. Everything was hot and slick and wet as their bodies undulated against each other in the limited space, Ivar’s palms unerringly finding Heahmund’s hips like they were made just for his hands.

Ivar threw his head back and Heahmund placed his fingers around his throat, watching as the other fell apart underneath him. He could strangle him, or push his head down underneath the water to drown him; Ivar was at a disadvantage in this narrow space and weighed down by the body above him. But that would be too easy. Heahmund wanted to ruin him, make the heathen pay for his transgressions against God, slowly, painfully—wanted the last look on his face to be one of the deepest betrayal, gurgling and drowning on his own blood, while Heahmund pulled his sword out from his chest where it had pierced his heart.

His teeth scraped over Ivar’s pulse point, lethal, as he gazed up at Ivar from underneath his lashes.

“Heahmund,” Ivar gasped.

Needless to say, they ended up letting King Harald wait for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with [gorgeous art](https://shieldmaiden-of-fandoms.tumblr.com/post/181921692756/feeling-merciful-heahmund-decided-to-make-the) by Khutulun! <3


	2. Chapter 2

As they entered the hall, the great rib cage of a whale stretched towards them from the ceiling, reminding Heahmund of its counterpart at the harbor, forcing all those who docked to pass through its stomach.

It made Heahmund think of Jonah, who had been commanded by God to warn the city of Nineveh of its imminent destruction, if it did not change its sinful ways. But Jonah did not heed the command and attempted to escape his holy duty by sailing away to Tarshish. There was a terrible storm on the way, which only ended when the sailors threw Jonah overboard, whereupon he was miraculously saved by a great fish that swallowed him.

But it was not by his own choice that Heahmund found himself on this journey far away from home. Unbidden, Ivar’s words echoed in his ear, asking him if this was an interruption of his journey or a part of it.

As much as Heahmund hated to admit it, there may have been truth in the heathen’s words. Just as Jonah had been trapped inside the whale, in the damp and the dark, so would Heahmund have to pass this trial the Lord had set out before him.

Even if it meant carving his way out of the beast’s stomach.

“Ah, _Ivar_.” Harald sat up in his wooden throne, teeth the same off-white shade as the whale bones as he bared them in a smile too wide to be friendly. “Finally decided to show your face, did you? You’ve kept us _all_ waiting.” He spread his arms, gesturing to all those present. “I hope you had a good reason.”

Ivar smiled widely and unapologetically. “Oh, I _did_.”

Heahmund pretended not to feel the searing intensity of those eyes on his skin, reminding him of all the fresh aches and marks littering his body. That bruising grip lingered on his hips like an after-echo, branding him as a sinner and burning his flesh from the inside out. This was beyond any of his previous slip-ups, the god-fearing women he took to bed and who would taste his mouth like it was benediction.

It was clear as day that this was to be his punishment for his sinful deeds. And just like the women he had sinned with, so would Heahmund open his mouth wide to it, accepting it gratefully like the thin, soft melt of Christ’s body on his tongue.

Harald waited for Ivar to elaborate and grew visibly irritated when several seconds passed and it became apparent that he wouldn’t. Before the scowl could settle in place, he forced a smile on his face. “Of course,” he said. “But... why did you bring the Christian?”

Heahmund recognized the word and met the man‘s wary gaze squarely. This time, no one pushed him down on his knees and there were no chains or manacles to try and tame him. A slow smile spread on his lips and he let the other think that it was a friendly gesture. Him, the heathen who called himself king. He let his eyes drift to the crown of fangs on the man‘s head and regarded it with faint contempt. It was nothing like the ones of his homeland, forged from the finest metal by only the most skilled craftsmen and inset with precious stones. This, in contrast, seemed more like a beggar’s or poor fisherman’s crown.

Ivar shrugged. “I felt like it.” Then he leaned forward with both hands on his crutch, voice hushed and sly as though to impart a secret. “You know I’m a helpless cripple. You can think of him as my bodyguard.”

“The Christian?” Harald raised a brow. “Is that wise?”

He fingered an axe, perhaps in an attempt to intimidate them. If so, he failed spectacularly, for it seemed in Heahmund’s eyes no better than Ivar’s crutch, revealing his weakness and fear more clearly than words ever could have.

“Well…” It was no accident when Ivar’s gaze strayed to Harald’s side. “It‘s not like I‘m taking him as my spouse, am I?”

Harald gripped the arms of the throne tightly enough Heahmund thought the wood would splinter, but then the tension passed and he laughed heartily like it was the funniest joke he had ever heard. “Good one. Very good one.” His hands clapped, a tad too loudly and ending just as abruptly as he stilled. He looked rapidly between Ivar and Heahmund, taking in the marks on both their necks, their slightly disheveled states.

A look of acute disbelief crossed Harald’s face as he put the pieces together. He barked out a laugh. “Seems like you appreciate the Christian for more than just his skills as a warrior, eh?”

Stunned silence followed this statement. Then the guards and warriors exploded in a cacophony of jeering and laughter, loud despite their sparse number.

“Looks like someone had a good time!”

“Does your Christian fuck the way he fights?” a burly man shouted.

Yet another yelled, “Did he cry like a little bitch when you fucked him?” This incited a fresh round of laughter.

It was not hard to imagine what these pagans were saying, especially with the way their eyes roved over his body now, almost considering. Their invasive gazes seemed to focus especially on his neck and the dark bruises there, standing out all the more vividly against the paleness of his skin. It actually surprised him that they hadn’t noticed earlier, what with the way Hvitserk had kept shooting conspicuous glances between his brother and Heahmund. Then again, the marks could have easily been passed off as the usual rough treatment Christians received at the hands of these barbarians.

The way they looked at him now was wholly different from when he had arrived with Ivar, their tense bodies and angry faces radiating hostility while their eyes told another story.

They were afraid of him and his God; they had every right to be.

Heahmund kept his head held up high and only stared back at them coldly.

Quite unlike him, Ivar seemed to all but bask in the sudden attention, the motions of his hands and upper body quicksilver even as his legs remained stiffly still, held upright only by the heavy braces hugging them and giving them an illusion of broadness. He joked and shot quips back at the warriors, no doubt something lewd that sent them into an ever higher uproar. They clapped him on the back and seemed to congratulate him. Beside Ivar was Hvitserk who sat on one of the long tables off to the side of the hall with one leg bent, eclipsed in his younger brother’s shadow as always.

As their merriment continued, Heahmund let himself imagine slitting their throats while they were still laughing. How they would choke on their own blood, the viscous fluid filling their lungs as they futilely tried to close the gaping wound with their hands. But there would be no traction. Their fingers would grow ever more frantic as they slipped around on the slick surface, only succeeding in smearing the spreading redness everywhere.

The vision was so vivid that he could almost taste the copper of blood on his tongue. It would taste so good, sweeter even than honey. In slow, small increments, Heahmund allowed his lips to stretch into a smile.

Some of the guards who were watching stopped laughing and stared. In their eyes he could see them remembering the way he had stabbed that man in the fish market, and spat a mouthful of blood in his face after.

His hands twitched where they were clasped in front of him. He itched to feel the hilt of his sword against his palm and the slide of its iron edge through heathen flesh as though gliding through warm butter. However, Ivar had not seen fit to return it to him, so all Heahmund could do was stand there and smile, the expression a poor veneer for his overpowering bloodlust.

When he looked back over to Ivar, he was startled to see those inhuman eyes already fixed on him, Ivar’s attention obviously elsewhere even as his more oblivious companions continued talking at him. The sheer hunger on his face cut straight into Heahmund’s core, freezing him to the spot. But it was only a moment and Ivar was soon back to smiling and entertaining the others around him again, as if nothing had happened.

“Well, who would have thought?” Harald shook his head and leaned back in his throne with a low chuckle. “Tell me, Ivar, is he any good in bed?”

Ivar cocked a brow, smirking. “What do you think?”

They shared a good and long laugh. Harald sat back, seeming to have forgotten all about his anger at Ivar’s mocking jabs. In fact, he even seemed strangely… _relieved_. And it was then that Heahmund realized why Ivar probably took him along to these meetings.

He was meant to act as a distraction.

Entertainment for these pagans to point their fingers and laugh at. For that a simple Christian would have already sufficed, but a Christian who was not only a priest but Ivar’s bed warmer was even _better_.

It made Ivar seem just a little more relatable, a little more human. Harald could relax and breathe a little easier now that Ivar had proven that he was no different from the other young men his age who only had sex on their minds, sharing many of the same vices and weaknesses. Ivar the Boneless was just a boy after all and not at all the threat Harald feared he might turn out to be.

“Let’s move on to the matter at hand, shall we?“ Harald’s tone was fatherly, almost patronizing. “I understand your reasons for coming late well. Maybe too well. My beautiful Astrid has also tempted me many times.” There he reached over and took her hand in his. She smiled back at him, closed-mouthed. “But I am a _king_ , lest you forget, and as such a very busy man.“

“Of course.” Ivar flung out his arm, fingers of his gloved hand spread wide. “Please go on, King Harald. Tell us what it is that you wanted to tell us so urgently. I’m sure it is important.”

Heahmund did not understand much of what the heathens discussed, but whatever it was, it did not please Ivar. Although he kept a smile on his face, it was as fake as the one Harald wore earlier. His crooked spine—courtesy of the unequal weight distribution he put on the crutch—was a line of tension, the powerful muscles hidden underneath layers of leather coiled tight like a snake about to strike. And lash out it did with its tongue, at the pagan queen who had been silent and unassuming up until then. She smiled down at Ivar, almost benign, and despite the pleasant tone of her words, the air between them was frigid, making Heahmund wonder at their relationship and if it would affect the alliance between Ivar and this beggar king.

Except for a placating hand on Ivar’s shoulder and a few words, Hvitserk kept surprisingly silent. That did not make him any less watchful, and it was clear that Ivar was not only feared by Harald but even by his own brother.

Finally, Ivar reined himself in before the heathen king could grow too irritated, back to friendly smiles as he played the harmless, subservient cripple again. It was as though the rage had evaporated, his limbs hanging loose and relaxed, but Heahmund doubted that anyone was really fooled.

A frisson of tension remained, making his body thrum with an electric energy even as he and his brother bade the king and queen goodbye as they took their leave. Ivar was silent on the whole trip back through the village, but as soon as the door closed behind them he slammed the side of his fist into the wall.

And _laughed_.

“That smug bitch thinks she’s so smart, doesn’t she?” He shook his head, still chuckling. All at once, the tension went out of his body and he leaned languidly against the wall like there had never been a trace of rage to begin with.

Hvitserk had already left on the way, and Heahmund stopped just a few inches behind Ivar, spine straightening at this sudden change in demeanor.

“What happened?” he asked, regarding the heathen more closely now.

“Queen Astrid,” Ivar began explaining, his voice dripping with derision, “is the lover of the woman who killed my mother. She was part of the coup that helped that bitch Lagertha steal the throne of Kattegat. And now she convinced Harald to postpone our attack by a month since _apparently_ , when she was still Lagertha’s loyal lapdog she went to the Seer who foretold the usurper’s downfall, saying something about three moons needing to pass before the wolf could devour the one it was chasing. If the wolf attacked before that, the only moons he would eat would be his fangs and there would be a great calamity.”

Ivar laughed again, detaching from the wall and leisurely making his way over to one of the chairs at the table. “She’s got Harald wrapped around her little finger and like a blind fool he hasn’t even noticed.”

“But if she is Lagertha’s lover, then how did she become Harald’s queen?”

“Harald went to Kattegat and took her. He stole her right from underneath that usurper‘s nose.” A vicious smile twisted his lips and he gestured to the empty chair close to his.

After a moment, Heahmund took the invitation and sat down. “And he trusts her?”

“He _does_. But she has to be truly desperate to make up a story like that.” An amused little smile played on his lips. “Do you know what that means, priest?”

When Heahmund said ‘no’, Ivar smiled wider. “It means that she will send a message to Lagertha. It doesn’t matter when or how, but she will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Oh _please_ , it’s clear she wants to buy Lagertha more time to prepare. And for that, she needs her message to reach Kattegat, no matter what. Her little story only serves as proof for how much she still loves Lagertha. Poor Astrid.” By his mocking tone it was obvious he thought she was anything but poor. “She would do anything to warn her lover, of that I have no doubt.”

Heahmund cocked his head. “You are counting on it.”

“Yes.” Ivar looked gleeful about Heahmund having guessed his true intention. “And she’s playing her part beautifully.”

Still, Ivar’s answer did not quite satisfy Heahmund.

“You want to meet Lagertha on the battlefield, with her ready and waiting for you with her forces fully amassed. Why?”

“Hmm, I don’t know.” Ivar’s fingers drummed on the table. “Why don’t _you_ tell me, priest?”

Heahmund thought about it for a moment, then raised his eyes. “Your alliance with Harald seems uneasy at best and he strikes me as too ambitious a man to simply allow you to become King of Kattegat unchallenged. You plan on letting Harald’s and Lagertha’s forces fight each other, so you can strike when they are weak, getting rid of both your foe and temporary ally in one fell swoop and emerging the victor. Isn’t that right?”

It sounded like madness. A youth’s overconfidence who had grown drunk on his victories and now thought himself a god. Surely, his previous battles had only been a fluke and he would be killed in the next clash, or the one after that.

Or maybe it was the opposite and he was truly the brilliant tactician Heahmund was suspecting him to be, whose mind Heahmund had already caught brief glimpses of in the battle of York, like the shadow of something passing underneath a ship and the size of which could not be measured until it surfaced and swallowed you whole. Maybe Ivar was indeed like that, and he would go on to conquer kingdom after kingdom, unstoppable.

But not if Heahmund learned the workings of this beast’s mind first, along with all its strengths and weaknesses, giving him the means to slay it.

While Heahmund spoke, Ivar had gone completely still and quiet and watched him fully enraptured. Now he was grinning wide enough to split his face, eyes a little too wide, and looking nothing short of _thrilled_.

“I knew there was a reason why Odin sent you to me!” He clapped his hands once, giddy like a child. “You are the best gift I could have asked for.”

Heahmund made a noise of disgust. “I have nothing to do with your false gods.”

“Hmm, that may be so… but what about your Christian god? Maybe you are his gift to me. Ever thought of that?”

Heahmund’s jaw clenched tight. “You know nothing of my God, the Lord Almighty, and you probably never would even if you tried. Do not speak of things you do not understand, heathen.“

“Now I‘ve made you angry, haven’t I?“ Calloused fingers touched his cheek. But Heahmund‘s nostrils flared and he wanted nothing more than to shake off the unwanted touch.

The fingers continued stroking down towards his chin, strangely hesitant and almost clumsy. Ivar used only the very tips of his fingers, his touch barely there beyond a light tickle. It was enough to make Heahmund forget his anger for a moment and pay attention, a single-minded focus sharpening his gaze.

And what he saw startled him.

It was utterly confounding how the heathen could show him such open vulnerability. They were enemies and barely knew each other, and yet it seemed like Ivar would keep true to his word of giving Heahmund the chance to get to know him beyond all the rumors and apparent lies that surrounded his name and reputation.

For he bared another facet of the mystery that was Ivar the Boneless. The way he touched Heahmund was unsure and there was a look in his eyes that could only be called lost. In fact, he almost seemed… afraid.

It put all of Ivar’s previous behavior into a completely new context.

From the very beginning his eyes had tracked Heahmund’s form everywhere. Although he had never touched him, it was clear now that he had been yearning to do so. But even when he had first captured Heahmund, he had only taken the latter’s sword and placed it against his throat, flat side whispering over Heahmund’s armored collarbone. Even when he had visited him in the church that had been turned into his makeshift prison, he had only broken off the Savior’s head from a stolen crucifix and left the pieces on the hard stone floor in front of Heahmund as a way to torment him. And even _then_ , covered in blood and shivering with a bone-deep cold, at the complete mercy of the heathen, Ivar had not dared to touch him.

It was a stark contrast to his boasting to the other warriors in King Harald’s hall, confident and smirking. But now it seemed that too had been only an act, just like his anger.

And it was stranger still for what had already transpired between them. After all, hadn’t they been passionately copulating only this morning and through much of the previous night? And yet Ivar traced even the marks he himself had put on Heahmund’s neck with excessive carefulness. Both wonder and fear trembled in his touch, as though Ivar had never thought he would be allowed this privilege and feared it might be ripped away from him any moment. As though he thought that whatever happened between them had been just a fluke and surely, Heahmund had already changed his mind or come to regret it.

Ivar looked at Heahmund like he was a god, cracked so open and wide that Heahmund could reach inside his chest, wrap his fingers around his red, pulsing heart and rip it out. Maybe Ivar would even thank him for it, if only for the fact that Heahmund had accepted his sacrificial offering.

But Heahmund was no god. There was only One God, and He would never accept such banal and pagan tributes.

Heahmund deliberately let the tension drain out of him and leaned into Ivar’s touch with a sigh. “If that was an apology, then it was a poor one.“

Ivar just stared at him for a moment, like he couldn’t believe it. Then the rough pads of his fingers rasped over Heahmund’s beard—already longer than Heahmund liked to keep it—gripping his jaw with a newfound confidence and surprising firmness. His thumb drew down Heahmund‘s face in a slow, possessive caress, palm facing the vulnerable expanse of Heahmund’s throat.

“I will do you one better,” Ivar said in a low voice, close enough for his warm breath to ghost over Heahmund’s cheek.

Then he abruptly let go of Heahmund’s face and called to one of the men standing guard outside at the door, giving him orders. A short while later the man returned, carrying a sword. Heahmund recognized it and looked at Ivar askance who only shrugged, a small grin curving his lips.

“Go ahead. Take it.”

He was only vaguely aware of Ivar dismissing the man as he admired his sword, just feeling its weight in his hands for a moment before pulling it out of its sheath. He paused.

“You used it and put it back into its sheath without wiping away the blood first?”

Ivar sighed like Heahmund was being the difficult one. “I’ll tell one of the servants to clean it later. Come on, priest. Aren’t you just a little happy to have your sword back?”

“It’s my sword. Should I also thank you for taking me away from my home and on a journey I did not wish to undertake?”

Ivar only laughed in response, making no effort to defend his actions. Not that Heahmund would have expected him to. As Heahmund tested his sword’s heft and ran his fingers along the edge, Ivar leaned against the table and watched him closely.

“I saw you earlier, you know?” he said, after a while. “I could see in your eyes that you wanted nothing more than to hold your sword in your hands and cut down Harald’s men. But you didn’t even need to lift a finger to make them fear you. You are something else, aren’t you, Bishop Heahmund?”

Heahmund smiled, mirthlessly. “I was unarmed. I can’t help that Harald’s men are cowards.”

This prompted another laugh out of Ivar and his hand returned to Heahmund’s face, tracing the edge of his hairline, the delicate shell of his ear, as though he couldn’t quite help it. As though now that he knew he had permission, he intended to get the most out of it before it was rescinded.

“It was the right decision to take you with me to the meeting. You were very _naughty_ the first time—“ there his thumb pressed down on Heahmund’s lower lip, lingering, “—but it revealed something interesting as well. Harald kept glancing at you, and not because he thought you were my bed warmer.“ Ivar snickered. “It’s because you make him nervous.”

Heahmund tipped his head back. “Ah,” he said, low, toneless, “but I don’t make _you_ nervous?”

Ivar’s froze, mind no doubt going over all his shy little touches and the great vulnerability he had revealed there. Then his smile righted itself, his fingers sliding down to dig into the bruises and bitemarks in a clearly possessive gesture, enveloping Heahmund’s neck completely. “Does it look like you make me nervous?”

He smirked, but his eyes remained wary, as though trying to judge whether Heahmund was laughing at him, or if it would be easier to just close his fingers and squeeze the life out of the other.

Even so, Heahmund did not attempt to pull away and even smiled. “Oh, I think I do.”

He raised his sword. It had been Ivar’s mistake to reach out, unable to resist the temptation of Heahmund’s skin, leaving his side wide open and allowing the edge of Heahmund’s blade to slide whisper-soft underneath his armpit. If he slashed upwards and sideways, Ivar would bleed out in seconds.

Heahmund saw Ivar’s pulse jump, felt the way his grip tightened around Heahmund’s throat. Heahmund stared back at him calmly. Neither of them moved for long seconds. Then, letting the flat of the blade scrape down the ridges of the leather armor, he pushed his knuckles against Ivar’s chest to create some space between them and finished the trajectory he made in the motion of re-sheathing his sword.

“Don’t I?” he said with a raised brow. In one smooth motion he lifted and dropped the sword on the table.

It was only when the sheath had stopped clattering on the wooden surface that the tension drained out of Ivar. He laughed, just a little breathlessly, and leaned against the edge of the table like he was dizzy and needed a moment to catch himself.

But before Heahmund could retract his hand, Ivar’s own shot out, as fast as a snake, powerful fingers curling around his wrist. The way he looked at Heahmund could only be described as intent; a cat chasing a mouse.

“I’ve wanted to have you again from the moment you made Harald’s men stop laughing and cower before you in fear with barely a glance.”

Heahmund raised a brow, lazily flexing his fingers. There was no give to Ivar’s iron grip. “Only since then?”

“You know me too well, priest.” Ivar looked down, smiling. When he looked up again, Heahmund could read in his eyes what he intended to do. And so, when he reached between Heahmund’s thighs to grip the leg of his stool and pull it out from underneath him, Heahmund let himself fall. It was controlled, almost a choreography, and his body instinctively moved to absorb the impact.

Ivar followed him to the floor soon after, slithering forward sinuously on his palms until he dragged himself on top of Heahmund. His weight pressed down on the body underneath his, the smell and warmth of him surrounding Heahmund and blocking out the candlelight, almost oppressive. His hands slid down Heahmund’s arms to wrap around his wrists, one after the other, pulling them above his head where he pinned them down.

Heahmund arched his back and tugged at the hold. Ivar’s fingers tightened in response, becoming firm and unyielding like the shackles that had still bound Heahmund barely a day ago. But Heahmund did not tug because he wanted to escape. Here, on the ground which was Ivar’s territory, he likely would not have a chance anyway. He could still try though, dig his knee into Ivar’s side, snap forward with teeth, the taste of blood blooming on his tongue, but that would be beside the point.

This was no fight; this was a dance.

“Must you always test me, priest?” Ivar’s thumb rubbed the center of Heahmund’s palm, the bit of skin underneath his glove.

“But then I guess you must have figured out that is how I like you best, haven’t you?” Ivar’s smile was almost fond.

The frankness with which Ivar addressed what Heahmund had started between them surprised him, but before he could dwell further on the words, Ivar leaned down to fit his mouth over Heahmund’s. That strange warmth and tenderness lingered in the heathen’s eyes, but the kiss was no less hungry for it.

Heahmund thought again of the women who would take Mass at his hands, who would obediently lick his fingers when he fed them the body and blood of Christ. This was nothing like that. This was not even like the brambles and thorns Heahmund had thrown himself into, after, and all the more punishing for its wretched gentleness. But perhaps he should have expected the heathen to deny him even the blood and pain through which his sins would be cleansed, if only a little.

And so, frustrated, he strained against those unyielding hands, but they only bore down harder in response. Stretched out at this angle, Ivar’s arms did little to support him and he laid out flat on top of Heahmund, covering him entirely and making any movement impossible.

Ivar chuckled and squeezed Heahmund’s wrists, not painfully. “We do it my way or not at all, priest.”

Heahmund only huffed in response, surrendering—for the moment.

And so they remained locked like this for the next minutes, just slowly grinding and undulating against each other without any hurry, like they had all the time in the world. Despite the fact that they were both fully clothed, it felt strangely intimate. A low kind of heat kindled underneath Heahmund’s skin, building with every nip of teeth or flick of that wicked tongue against his own, building and building until it was unbearable and he felt like he would suffocate under the weight of his own skin.

Finally he was able to free his legs from the deadweight of Ivar’s own, heavier now due to the additional weight of the metal braces. He slid his legs up Ivar’s thighs before wrapping them around Ivar’s hips and grinding their lower bodies together, finally getting some real friction even through the layers of clothes separating them. They both moaned and Ivar had to rip his mouth away from Heahmund’s. When he recovered, his eyes were dark and his grip on Heahmund’s wrists grew tight enough to leave bruises.

It seemed like the time for languid kisses and tender touches was over.

Ivar nearly ripped off Heahmund’s clothes in his hurry and was too impatient to remove his own. Taking off the leg braces seemed to be too much of a hassle as he left them untouched and only unlaced his breeches. His fingers stroked the spot behind Heahmund’s balls before circling his hole, but then he was stopped.

“No,” Heahmund said.

Ivar grew stock-still. His face was carefully blank as he made to get up and away from Heahmund, but Heahmund tightened his legs around Ivar, reeling him back in. “No,” he repeated, with more force. “I want you to take me like this.”

Ivar looked like he could scarce believe it, licking his lips unsteadily. “Are you sure?”

“Go on. I’m still loose from this morning.” He paused, looking straight into Ivar’s eyes. “I want you, Ivar. Now.”

Ivar’s eyes were nearly black with want and he wasted no time furtively spitting into his gloved hand and slicking himself up. “Fine,” he gritted out. “Seems like we’ll have it your way after all, priest.”

One hand gripped Heahmund’s hip as he lined himself up. And then he was entering Heahmund in one long and hard thrust. There was friction and pain, but Heahmund had fought on the battlefield for many years and was used to much worse. All it did was ease the ache inside him. And although his time with Ivar had been his first time bedding a man, he thought he could get used to this; the sensation of having another inside him, the pure intimacy of it, not unlike taking the body of Christ into himself during Communion. And in the end, what did it matter if he added another form of pleasure, another sin, to his long list of transgressions?

Perhaps Heahmund should have felt shame, but in all truth he didn’t. He never had. And it was this, he knew, which made him the biggest sinner of all.

Above him, Ivar went slack-jawed. One hand was planted on the floor next to Heahmund’s head and it looked like he needed a moment to pull himself together and stave off his imminent orgasm.

Heahmund, of course, couldn’t leave him be and squeezed down on him, savoring the resulting ache and pressure that sent more precome dribbling out of his cock where it pooled on his stomach. Ivar’s arm nearly buckled and he cursed. When he recovered, he lifted Heahmund’s leg up higher on his waist, gripping his thigh with bruising force. He pulled out almost all the way before pushing back inside. The change in angle made him brush a spot inside Heahmund that had him shouting and arching his back, pulling Ivar closer to himself as he ground up in an attempt to draw out that sensation. His head tipped back against the floor, and Ivar immediately fell hungrily over the exposed skin of his throat. Warm leather pressed against his naked skin, at once rough and buttery soft as it brushed over his sensitive nipples. Pleasure lanced through him like fire and he sank his fingers into Ivar’s hair, tugging his locks free from his braids.

Ivar growled and kept his thrusts hard and deep. This pace lasted for a while, but inevitably his control frayed as the need for release became too strong. His movements degenerated into short, fast thrusts that grew ever more erratic, and he eventually spilled his seed inside Heahmund with a muffled shout against his neck. Heahmund moaned at the burning, wet heat that spread inside him; overcome by that sheer perfect feeling of _fullness_. It only took Ivar wrapping his hand around Heahmund’s cock in a loose grip for Heahmund to follow him over the edge, spurts of white marking their stomachs in dripping stripes, scalding hot like the spray of blood on his face when his sword sank into heathen flesh, and just as cathartic.

Only the sound of their pants filled the room as Ivar stayed drawn taut in his position, bowed forward and forehead pressing into Heahmund’s chest.

After a while, his shoulders began shaking and it became apparent that he was snickering.

“Has anyone ever told you how loud you are, priest?” He propped himself up on Heahmund’s chest, looking down at him with an amused grin on his lips. “My men standing guard outside couldn’t have overheard that. In fact, I’m surprised that half the village hasn’t come knocking to tell you to keep it down.”

Heahmund repressed his sigh, just barely. Trust the heathen to disturb the peace of their afterglow. “Now you are just exaggerating.”

Ivar raised both brows. “Have you ever heard yourself? Or...” his smile turned sly, “maybe you are only this loud with me due to my undeniable sexual prowess.”

Heahmund only snorted. “Your ego knows no bounds, heathen. Do you truly believe I am this loud only with you?”

“Come on, admit it. I’m good in bed.”

Heahmund only scoffed and didn’t bother to deign that with an answer. Ivar in turn chuckled but seemed content to let it lie at that. They trailed off into companionable silence, only their quiet breaths filling the room as Ivar absentmindedly stroked Heahmund’s thigh, the cool metal buckles of his arm straps making the bare flesh pebble with goosebumps. Heahmund would have voiced his displeasure, if he wasn’t too comfortable where he lay. But even with his eyes closed, Heahmund could still feel Ivar watching him, taking in his features in what he perhaps believed to be an unguarded moment.

He lazily peeled his eyes open a fraction. Despite being caught red-handed, the heathen stared back unabashed.

Heahmund did not back down either. “Why did you tell me your plan when you even sent your brother away so he wouldn’t overhear it? Aren’t you afraid I’ll go to him and talk? What if he bands together with Harald and they conspire against you?”

Ivar shook his head, smiling in amusement. “You won’t.”

“You know as well as I do that my loyalty belongs to no heathen.”

“No, only to your god.” Ivar’s words came out matter-of-fact, as if there was no doubt to the truth of them. “You have a jealous god, don’t you? He wants you to kill all heathens if they refuse conversion to the Christian faith and he forbids the worship of any god other than him, going so far as to force a vow of celibacy on you. He wants you _all_ to himself. I can certainly understand that, and I even respect that. But you will find that I can be just as jealous. Your god may have your love and devotion, but for as long as you remain here you owe me the same. I wouldn’t want to, but if you turned on me, I would have to kill you. But you don’t fear death and you don’t fear any man, do you, Bishop Heahmund? No, that would not be enough to deter you. The reason why you won’t tell anyone is because you are curious to see how I will actually manage to pull off my plan. Or am I wrong?”

Ivar leaned down with a chuckle, only slightly unhinged. His shadow came to stretch over Heahmund once more.

“Just you wait and see, priest.” Ivar slapped Heahmund’s cheek twice, tutting when Heahmund bared his teeth at the patronizing gesture. “Just you wait and see.”

*

The feast later that night went as expected. Harald announced the change of plans to many great cheers. No one seemed to mind as long as they were able to fill their bellies on the banquet laid out before them. It was enough to make Heahmund’s lip curl in disgust.

These pagans were loud and uncouth. They seemed to subsist on violent games as their daily bread and knew neither shame or propriety. Some of them were even fornicating in half-shadowed corners, uncaring of who was watching or who joined them. Others engaged in drinking games and savage matches of strength that would as soon descend into brawls. They ate like animals. Even when they used forks or spoons they spilled their food everywhere, but mostly they shoved everything into their mouths with their hands without care of the fat and juices that ran down their chins or got stuck in their beards. Sometimes Heahmund even had to wonder if they chewed with how fast they gobbled down the content of their plates, piles of bones growing haphazardly on the table to the sound of greedy slurps and gnashing teeth, making them sound much more like hungry demons than humans.

This might as well have been hell and Heahmund was trapped in its very heart, surrounded by heathens who were the devil’s worshippers and sought to drag him down into damnation. He felt like Christ in the desert with the devil, battling the father of lies and strong even after forty days of fasting. And so Heahmund would be just like the Savior, remaining pure and untouched even in the face of these pagans’ sinful displays, as immovable and solid as a rock in turbulent waters.

That was when he felt a warm hand on his lower back, sliding down. It was not a shy touch, caressing and squeezing with purpose before Heahmund whirled on the perpetrator.

“What are you doing?“ The whites of his teeth flashed. “I’m not your slave.”

“Of course you’re not,” Ivar was quick to agree, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I just can’t seem to keep my hands off you. That is all.”

He shrugged theatrically and raised his hands open-palmed in what would typically be an apologetic gesture. _Mea culpa, mea culpa_ , but without any of the remorse. Heahmund was less than impressed.

“Aren’t you tired from standing all the time?” Ivar went on. Though he kept his hands to himself this time, his eyes were a different matter, gliding over Heahmund’s body openly and shamelessly.

“I’m your bodyguard.”

“Can’t my bodyguard sit down?”

“And where do you suppose should I sit?”

It was true. Despite the varying states of soberness it was still an early night and all the seats at the table were yet occupied. At the head sat King Harald with Astrid, Hvitserk to her left, across from his brother and currently stuffing his face full of chicken stew.

A look of consternation entered Ivar’s face and Heahmund was sure the heathen was well on his way to being tipsy like the rest of his brethren, if he wasn’t there already. Ivar looked around himself, eyes lighting up when he spotted his neighbor, slumped forward with his face buried in his half-finished meal. Without hesitation Ivar shoved him off his stool. The man flopped down to the floor and on his back with a loud snore, insensate to the world.

Ivar then turned to Heahmund with an eager expression and gestured to the now free seat. “Come sit with me, priest.“

Well. That was certainly one way to make space.

Heahmund could only shake his head, stepping over the unconscious heathen to take his place at the table. Although Harald seemed to be in a private conversation with Astrid, it was clear he was paying attention to them and everything they were doing. He had to be glad about the additional buffer between him and Heahmund now that Ivar was sitting in the middle.

After all, the beggar king had been voicing some concerns earlier about Heahmund’s presence and if not that, then the sword that Ivar had returned to him. And it wasn’t just Harald; all the other pagans had to look twice when they spotted the scabbard hanging from his left hip, the whole hall falling silent when Ivar and him had entered. Ivar had clearly thrived on their fear as he made his way straight to the head table where the king and queen sat, Heahmund a silent shadow trailing behind him and the only sound to fill the air that of his crutch scraping over the floor.

Ivar pressed his mouth against the side of his hand which held his cup in a loose grip, but even half-hidden his smile was still visible. And though his head was tilted at a languid angle, the look in his eyes was intent.

“Feed me,” Ivar said, scooting closer in a maneuver that was surprisingly smooth considering his inebriated state.

“I told you: I’m not your slave.”

“But I’m _starving_ , Heahmund. Don’t you feel sorry for a cripple like me?” There was a trace of a whine in his voice, reminding Heahmund of his age. For a moment Heahmund had to sigh and close his eyes, sending silent prayers up to the Lord begging Him for patience and the endurance necessary to deal with this man-child.

Ivar folded his arms on the table and laid his head down on them. Maybe he thought it would make him look more endearing. It did not.

“As far as I know, it’s only your legs which are crippled, not your hands. In fact, they seem to work perfectly fine,” Heahmund said drily.

“Ah, but you are a priest. I heard that you feed people as part of your Christian rituals. Why can’t you feed me?”

“It’s called Mass. And why should I feed you? You are a heathen.”

“And you are a Christian,” Ivar said, echoing the words they shared back in York. For a moment, he seemed to smile softly in remembrance. Then he shook it off and went back to grinning up at Heahmund cheekily. “But I’m _still_ hungry.”

There was something faintly sing-songy about the words, and Heahmund already felt a headache creeping up the base of his skull.

“You wouldn’t be hungry, if you hadn’t been so busy feeling me up.”

“Don’t be like that, priest. Maybe you could even convert me to your faith by letting me have the no doubt,” there Ivar licked his lips, “ _enlightening_ experience of being fed by your hand.” By now he was sitting up again, close enough that their noses would touch, if Heahmund were to turn his head.

Heahmund let out a soft, surprised breath. He simply could not believe how Ivar could still be so _insatiable_.

Ivar for his part did not seem to mind that Heahmund was not looking at him. His fingers touched Heahmund’s jaw in that peculiar way of his, both inquisitive and wanting. He dragged them down Heahmund’s lips, the scratch of his beard. Next he put Heahmund’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. It was a lax grip, more to hold and touch than keep in place. His nose pressed forward against the side of Heahmund’s face, tracing delicately up his cheekbone, his mouth a point of heat, breathing damp air into Heahmund’s skin. He stared at Heahmund for a long moment, but then he let his eyes slide shut and inhaled. It seemed instinctual, mindless, so natural in a way that made Heahmund shiver and feel restless. His fingers curled against the wood of the table, tense.

Ivar let go with a small smile and a lingering caress. He leaned back, taking away his oppressive presence. His eyes trailed down Heahmund’s form to the table and the plate on top of it.

A wide, mischievous grin curved his lips.  “Aren’t you hungry, priest?”

Heahmund was very aware of the people shooting glances at them. It seemed that word had spread about their relationship. Not surprising after the meeting with Harald earlier in the day. Then again, Ivar wasn’t being very subtle. Many people leaned forward to better watch his antics, speaking about him and his strange Christian only in hushed whispers and behind the cover of their hands.

Heahmund stared back at them. If they thought this was enough to intimidate him, they would have to try harder. “No.”

“But you _must_ be hungry. You haven’t eaten since…” he rolled his jaw as he thought about it, “yesterday, I think.”

Heahmund sat up and lifted his chin. “‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.‘”

“Surely, your god wouldn’t mind if you had just a little. In fact, I think you have a tradition of breaking bread and sharing your meal with each other, don’t you?”

When Ivar offered a grape to Heahmund, he turned his head away to avoid it touching his skin, lips peeling back in distaste. “I may not be your slave, but I’m not your pet either.”

Ivar waited another moment, perhaps to see if Heahmund would give in, but finally he seemed to accept that it was a lost cause and popped the grape into his own mouth. The smile on his lips was hopelessly fond, much to Heahmund’s surprise.

“How stubborn you are, priest.” With his thumb Ivar stroked down the side of Heahmund’s jaw. “But I guess we can’t all be like my brother. He seems to be far more interested in his food than making idle conversation, and eats like a _pig_.”

Raising his voice, he repeated the same in his native tongue, making the crowd around the table roar with laughter. Hvitserk seemed quite startled to be the sudden center of attention, spoon hovering almost comically in the air halfway to his mouth. He let it drop into his bowl with a grumble and threw a chicken leg at Ivar who dodged and laughed in pure delight. The crowd laughed right along with him. Heahmund, however, did not, unimpressed by this immature and unsanitary display. The piece of poultry was only half-eaten and left a trail of gleaming oil on the floor where it had fallen and now lay next to the snoring man.

Ivar seemed to pick up on Heahmund’s disgust. “What’s wrong? Do our ways offend your delicate Christian sensibilities? Tell me, how do the Saxons eat?”

“For one, we do not eat with our hands. For another, we certainly do not play with our food.”

Ivar touched his upper lip with the tip of his tongue, seeming to think about this seriously. “Sounds boring.”

Heahmund exhaled in exasperation. “It’s the only proper way.”

“I’m sure it is.” The smile on his lips contradicted this, holding a trace of mocking. Before Heahmund could lecture him about proper etiquette and table manners, one of the men at the table shouted something at Ivar that made him smile, slow and wide. Heahmund did not like the look in his eyes.

Ivar held up his cup, pushing it towards Heahmund. When Heahmund held his hand up as a barrier, Ivar said, “Drink, priest. It’s mead.”

“I have tried mead before and found it not to my taste.” Several pairs of eyes were fixed on the both of them, putting Heahmund on edge. He knew they were curious to see how he would react.

“Ours is different. You will like it.” Ivar pushed his cup forward again.

When Heahmund refused once more, Ivar seemed to give up, taking a sip from his beverage. Sounds of disappointment went through the crowd. But then Ivar clasped the back of Heahmund’s neck and kissed him with a mouthful of mead, pushing it inside with his tongue. There were catcalls as Heahmund struggled, but Ivar’s grip was like steel, reminding Heahmund of the strength of his hands and arms. Heahmund bit down on that invading tongue, the taste of copper flooding their mouths. But Ivar’s fingers only squeezed down harder on Heahmund’s nape, and he didn’t let go until Heahmund had swallowed.

When they separated, a trickle of that pale, red-tinged liquid escaped the side of his mouth. Ivar wiped at it thoughtfully with his thumb before leaning forward and licking it up with his tongue. As he did, Heahmund’s hand clenched tightly in a fist on the table and his whole body trembled with barely contained fury.

Ivar grinned, fearlessly, red staining his teeth and making him look like something out of a nightmare.

Heahmund tasted it in his own mouth, sharp and metallic. It stuck to the back of his tongue and mingled with the lingering traces of mead. The beverage wasn’t as bad as Heahmund thought it would be, tasting of wildflowers and sun, but he would always prefer wine, tangy and bitter, yet sweeter than anything that existed on earth. It was Christ’s chosen vessel for his blood. Nothing mortal could ever compare, much less something so poor a substitute as foul heathen blood.

More of it trickled down the side of Ivar’s mouth and he licked his lips salaciously, inciting the crowd even more. It was clear to everyone watching that Heahmund had bitten down on his tongue and Ivar sighed, shrugging dramatically in a motion that seemed to say, “What can you do?” Sympathetic exclamations resounded through the crowd and Ivar accepted them all with a showman’s grace.

Heahmund watched him. Then, softly, he said, “Ivar.”

Ivar placed his finger to his mouth, quieting the crowd at once which hung from his every word. “What is it, my dear priest?”

Heahmund trailed his fingers over the table slowly, knowing that Ivar would follow every motion hungrily, no matter how small. They stopped at a wide bowl filled with fruits where he picked up an apple. “Your mead is... better than I thought it would be.”

A look of surprise crossed Ivar’s face before he grinned widely and translated Heahmund’s words for the audience they had attracted. This prompted cups all along the table to be filled until they were overflowing. The pale golden liquid splashed everywhere as the pagans raised their beverages in unison and drank them down in one go.

When the commotion settled down and it was quiet again, Heahmund continued, “Maybe you are right. Maybe the ways of my people are boring and I should try some of yours.“ He set down the apple and plucked a grape, rolling it around between his fingers. “You wanted me to feed you, didn’t you?”

Ivar looked on so intently that he almost forgot to answer. When Heahmund’s words finally sank in, his lips parted and he looked quite startled. “Yeah.”

Heahmund not quite laughed, just the pinch of his lips at the corners and a huff of breath through his nose. He raised his hand, bringing the grape to Ivar’s lips, over his throat where his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in anticipation.

How strange this heathen was, with his clumsy attempts at courtship in a futile bid to win Heahmund’s affection. How pitiful and starved a boy. Maybe it was not just his legs which were crippled after all, but something deeper and far more devastating.

Ivar opened his mouth obediently, taking the grape into his mouth. He pressed his lips up against Heahmund’s fingers, trembling and fervent, a heathen praying at God’s altar. It would be an amusing sight, if it wasn’t so pathetic.

In the end, he was no different from the women Heahmund took to bed and who would worship at his feet as if he were Christ himself.

Heahmund rubbed his thumb over Ivar’s lips, as if rewarding a pet. What he said earlier was true: Heahmund was no one’s pet or slave and never would be. He was God’s servant of his own free will. It was Ivar who was the slave—to fame and glory, flattery and acknowledgement; to love. But that was his mistake. There was no such thing as love on earth. Some people thought they had found it, but they were wrong. What they had was worldly and profane and only an illusion. There was only the sacred, ineffable love given to and received from the Lord. And Ivar was a fool for believing that anything like that could ever exist in their world.

So, too, were his tender touches and words meaningless. He would promise his devotion to anyone who showed him even the slightest bit of kindness. Lick up the crumbs of their affection, no matter how sparse or how false, giving away the means to control and manipulate him as easily as breathing.

Heahmund wasn’t special; he was merely the first to play this illusion for Ivar.

When Heahmund slid his palm up Ivar’s cheek, Ivar leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut and brows drawing together. His hand came up to cover Heahmund’s to prevent him from letting go.

Heahmund should have pitied the heathen for the fact that he would never experience the true love that could only be found in God, but he did not. Neither did he feel hate or affection for him. When Heahmund looked down at him, all he felt was nothing.

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips against Ivar’s who inhaled sharply and surged up against him. On Ivar’s tongue Heahmund could taste the sweetness of the grape along with the bitterness of blood. Heahmund picked at the wound, reopening it and Ivar moaned. His grip tightened around Heahmund and he nearly pulled him into his lap.

The cheers of the crowd seemed to reach a deafening crescendo, but it faded into the background. Everything did. In this moment, nothing else mattered but this performance Heahmund put on for Ivar.

The heathen had not been wrong when he said that Heahmund owed him his love and devotion for as long as Heahmund was by Ivar’s side and under his power.

But Ivar would get only that, and nothing more.

When Heahmund pushed away, Ivar looked quite breathless and dazed. Heahmund knew that if he played his cards right, Ivar would not only give him his heart but also a kingdom and all the might and riches one could imagine, if Heahmund had ever been interested in such things.

Ivar finally regained his bearings and gripped Heahmund tight. The raw desire was plain on his face and when he smiled, it was strained. “You and your people call me evil, but I think you may actually be the wicked one, priest.”

Heahmund’s lips brushed over Ivar’s cheekbone and the shell of his ear. “Why don’t you come and find out exactly how wicked I can be?”

Ivar hissed through his teeth and there was no doubt now that he was sporting a painful erection already. “I think you are enjoying this way too much.”

Heahmund smirked, not denying this accusation and watching with hooded eyes as Ivar fumbled for his crutch, barely able to get it underneath his arm before he pulled himself up to his feet. He bade the king and queen goodbye in a rush, his impatience palpable despite the smile he put on. Harald chuckled and dismissed him easily with a wave of his hand, the crowd parting around them as they made their way through the hall to retire early for the night. There were catcalls and whistles and not few lascivious grins sent his way, but Heahmund ignored them, assured in the knowledge that the wrath of God would one day fall on these heathens for their sinful ways like a large rock, crushing their bodies and grinding their bones to dust until they resembled nothing more than red smears on the earth.

As soon as they were out of sight, Ivar dragged him into a shadowed corner, pressing him up against the side of a hut and licking his way into his mouth. Heahmund returned the fervor, fingers hooking into Ivar’s braids. Ivar’s hand, the one which was not clutching his crutch and making sure he would not fall to the ground in his boyish eagerness, roamed over the expanse of Heahmund’s body, as if he had not already spent hours studying its shape and taste. Heahmund could not fathom why Ivar had not yet tired of it. His was a body made for war. Not for tenderness and certainly not for whatever Ivar imagined could develop between them. For all his sins, Heahmund never bedded the same woman twice, and neither did they seek him out again beyond the first time. Their desires were simple, and they knew better than to ask for things that he could never give.

Maybe it was only a blind man who would hug a sword to sleep, who would call it a companion and lover despite the cuts he sustained from holding it so close. But then, without the light of God all heathens were as children fumbling around in the dark and might as well be blind. Heahmund’s thumb passed lightly over Ivar’s fluttering lid, stopping at the corner of his eye where his skin was taut with tension.

It did not take long for Ivar to spill over Heahmund’s fist, sagging against him and panting into the side of his neck. But the night was young yet and Heahmund knew that it would only take the edge off. Leaning back against the wall, Heahmund glimpsed the moon beyond Ivar’s shoulder, not quite full and pregnant but waning, peeking out of the thick veil of clouds only briefly before vanishing again.

He felt his resolve harden.

Three moons would Heahmund play this charade for Ivar. He would be the fiercest and most loyal of Ivar’s men, a passionate, attentive and gentle lover, his bodyguard, friend and advisor and whatever else Ivar wanted him to be. Heahmund would spin the most beautiful and elaborate lie for him, make all of Ivar’s hopes and dreams come true and more. But when those three moons had passed, Ivar would lie dead at Heahmund’s feet and Heahmund would be long gone from this godless land. Maybe Ivar wouldn’t even see the betrayal coming. Maybe he would die peacefully in his bed with a smile on his face, deep in slumber while Heahmund pushed a blade through his heart; allowing him to hold on to the lie even until the very end.

But Heahmund couldn’t do that.

When the time came, he would lift the spell and break the illusion, and Ivar would finally see Heahmund for what he really was: The sword of God, merely given mortal flesh.

And a sword could not love. It only knew how to draw blood.

Heahmund licked Ivar’s spend slowly from his fingers while looking up from underneath his lashes, making Ivar groan and hurriedly lace up his breeches so they could continue their journey back to their shared quarters. Despite the fact that it slowed them down, Ivar seemed unable to keep his unoccupied hand to himself, so hungry, always hungry. Unaware of the fact that each touch was yet another cut, another wound, and he wouldn’t notice until it was far too late and he was already bleeding out.

Heahmund fed the heathen‘s hunger and delusion, letting Ivar chase him through the house into their bedroom. The crutch detracted nothing from Ivar’s presence. He was truly as a beast on the prowl, powerful arm and back muscles working as he dragged himself forward step after step, teeth fletched, nostrils flaring. Where his eyes caught the moonlight, they glowed an unholy, inhuman blue.

It was a short chase and when Ivar caught him, they tumbled together into the furs. Heahmund went limp underneath Ivar’s weight, but he felt no fear. For he knew, in all truth, that it was not him who had been caught.

Ivar leaned down until their lips were almost touching and stroked Heahmund’s brows, nose and cheeks, as blind people often did. “One day you will be the death of me, Heahmund.”

 _Yes_ , Heahmund thought and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Heahmund. After last week's episode I think it needs to be said that he will live a long life in my story, even if it won't be an easy or even a happy one for most of the journey. I'm still angry at Hirst and his decision and all that wasted potential. Nonetheless, I hope you can draw some comfort from my story and I wish you all a Happy New Year!
> 
> (Also, Khutulun illustrated [the grape scene](https://shieldmaiden-of-fandoms.tumblr.com/post/181975568131/heahmund-not-quite-laughed-just-the-pinch-of-his). If you need to recover from 5b like I do, then looking at all of her beautiful Heavar art is a good place to start!)


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